


An oath pledged, a promise kept

by Dylanobrienisbatman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Sansa Stark, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Meera comes to winterfell and her and sansa start to bond, Past Relationship(s), Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Sansa Stark Character Study, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, and bran/meera and the reed siblings, and who knows who else, because im gonna probably do a bit of gendrya, bisexual meera reed, is gonna be multichapter, might also end up being a sort of meera character study if i can manage it, will add more ships as i go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dylanobrienisbatman/pseuds/Dylanobrienisbatman
Summary: Lady Meera of House Reed comes to Winterfell and pledges her banners to House Stark, long after Bran is crowned King of the Six Kingdoms, and when Sansa meets her gaze in the Great Hall, it feels like the start of something.Meera stays in Winterfell, and, over time, she and Sansa begin to bond.Sansa isn't sure what it all means, and her grief from loved ones lost is still an aching wound in her chest, but maybe, just maybe, the company of the Northern girl with sharp eyes and dark curls who had travelled with her brother so long ago was beginning to help heal her bruised and battered soul.





	An oath pledged, a promise kept

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be mostly a Sansa character study, delving into relationships Sansa had in the past and what the people meant to her. Chapter one touches on Margaery, and gets pretty angsty over Theon because YA GIRL IS ANGSTY AF OVER THEON RN. Lots of emotional hurt/comfort, we shall see where it goes from here! 
> 
>  
> 
> .... i make no promises about updating because I'm The Worst when it comes to that but hopefully I do okay!

“I carried Bran North of the Wall, and back. My brother died for him. But my house has always been loyal to House Stark, and we are Northerners, so... as the Lady of my House, the last living child of House Reed, I would like to pledge my banners to you, your grace.” Dark curls framed the face of the woman before her, who called herself Lady Meera of House Reed. For some reason, the look in Meera’s eyes reminded Sansa of Margaery, and it made her chest ache just a little, and she stood, walking over to her.

“House Stark is grateful to House Reed for their loyalty, and I am grateful to you, for keeping my brother safe.” She said, extending a hand to Meera, lifting her to stand. “My family is forever in your debt, as is The North, and the Sixth Kingdoms of Westeros. You protected their King, and my brother. We are grateful to have your house join our Banners.”

“Your sword, Lady Meera.” The voice of one of her Queens Guard rang out from the hall.

Meera lifted her sword from her side, and lay it on the ground before Sansa’s feet.

“House Reed and the people of our lands know no Queen but the Queen in the North whose name is Stark.” She proclaimed, loud and bright in the warmth of the Great Hall of Winterfell, and Sansa felt the words sink into her skin like they always did.

Queen in the North, chosen by her people.

And then Meera surprised her.

“Your Grace, if I may… House Reed has a fealty pledge of our own. It is our custom.”

“Of course.” Sansa replied.

“To Winterfell, to House Stark, and to the Queen in the North, we pledge the faith of Greyawter. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my Queen. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. We swear it by earth and water. We swear it by bronze and iron. We swear it by ice and fire.”

She stared down at Meera as she recited her oath, and she felt the hairs on her arms raise at the words. She offered a hand down to her, lifting her back to stand, and kissing the sword that was held out in front of her.

She remember the feeling of cold steel against her lips when Joffrey had made her kiss the sword that had killed her father. She had made it her own custom now to kiss the sword of the head of every great house, because she did not lead as a monarch, unattached and distance, but as a queen who loved her people. She kissed their sword to show them her love. To show them her gratitude.

“House Stark, Winterfell, and the Independent Kingdom of the North accept your oath of fealty. We will honour House Reed as loyal bannermen to the North, from this day, until our last days.”

When she finally met Meera’s eyes, her dark pupils were trained on her, and she held her gaze.

It felt like the beginning of something.

———

Sansa stood in the indoor garden she had had built in Winterfell. She remembered Olenna Tyrell, teaching her about greenhouses that were used to keep the roses of house Tyrell in bloom even through harsh winters, and she had always loved flowers. The greenhouse was huge, with a thick glass ceiling, built out near the godswood, and heavy golden handles placed on the doors, carved into the shape of roses, with the words ‘Growing Strong’ etched into them.

A tribute to her only friends in Kings Landing.

A gift, in the sight of the gods, to House Tyrell.

A memorial to Margaery, a woman she had loved. And lost.

She was out in the Tyrell Gardens one day when Meera entered, quiet as a mouse, before stopping in her tracks.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace!” She exclaimed through a hasty, sloppy curtesy.

“No, my lady, please come in. This place doesn’t see nearly enough visitors.” She said, wistful.

“‘Growing strong’? Those were House Tyrell’s words? And the golden rose their sigil?” Meera asked, and Sansa smiled.

“Yes… Yes this place is for everyone, but it is also for me to… remember them.” She whispered, almost to herself.

“Was House Tyrell… I’m afraid I haven’t heard those tales, your grace.” Meera responded, sitting on a soft cushion on the floor near Sansa’s large leather chair she had asked to have in the corner of the room.

“When I was… a captive, of Joffrey and Cersei, in Kings Landing, I was pledged to marry Joffrey, even before my father died. Him and King Robert wanted to join our houses. After his death, I was… kept. By the Lannisters, because having me meant being able to control my brother Robb, and my mother. I was pledged to be his wife, and then Lord Renly died, and Margaery and Loras arrived in Kings Landing, and asked Joffrey to cast me aside and wed her instead. Perhaps the only mercy Cersei ever showed me was her persuading Joffrey to accept the offer. So I was kept there, still caged, and the Tyrells… found me.Lady Olenna, protected me, in any way she could, she even killed Joffrey, in the end, and Loras was supposed to be my husband for a brief time, before… everything else. But… Margaery… She comforted me, she was my dearest friend… Possibly in my whole life. She had no motives, no agenda, she needed nothing and asked for nothing. She was kind and good, she… helped guide me… the way an older sister might… but she was…” Sansa stopped, catching her breath, realising she hadn’t spoken much of the Queen of the Roses aloud. She had never had anyone to tell the story too. “Margaery was more.”

Meera looked at her with an expression softer than any Sansa had seen in a while.

“I understand.” She whispered, and Sansa knew she meant more than just an understanding of Sansa’s connection to the Tyrells. Meera understood who Margaery had been to Sansa.

“Why did you come here?” She asked, wiping away the tear that had slid down her cheek at the memory of Margaery.

“It’s pretty here, and quiet.” She said, staring around at the flowers.

“Margaery would be glad to have such a lovely place exist in remembrance of her.” Sansa whispered. No one alive that she knew had ever met Margaery, so it had become her mission to keep the memory of the House of the Flowers alive. Being surrounded by Tyrell roses gave her strength. She though back to her coronation, and the veins of leaves that she had patterned into her gown, the same as Margaery’s wedding dress. She had carried her with her that day, and every day since. The tiny golden broach, an intricate rose wrapped in sharp thorns, the sigil of House Tyrell, was always pinned into the folds of her skirts.

“I also came here because I knew you spent time here... sometimes.” Meera said, and her voice was cautious, her gaze low, at the tips of Sansa’s shoes.

“Did you need me for something, my lady?” She asked.

“No. I just… I enjoy your presence. If it’s not too forward of me to say. Your Grace.” She still hadn’t lifted her gaze, and Sansa felt the urge to reach over and tuck a dark curl behind Meera’s ear, and lift her chin to see her eyes. She resisted, and twisted her hands in her own lap instead.

“It is not.” Sansa replied, her voice steadier than she expected. “I was hoping you’d return from Greywater Watch… You left so soon after you arrived, I never got to ask you about your adventures with my brother.”

Meera laughed, a harsh sound, not one full of joy, and the expression that passed across her face showed the same pain Sansa felt when she was asked to recount her days before she found Jon at Castle Black.

“Of course, you don’t-“

“Maybe not today, your grace. But if you’ll have me, I’d like to say a while. To represent my house in your hall, if there is a place for me. And maybe… we will find a chance to share more stories?”

She finally met Sansa’s eyes, and the look was hopeful, and she felt warm to her toes.

“We’d be lucky to have you hear with us, Lady Meera. I’ll have a room readied for you immediately.”

“We can sit a little while longer, if you’d like.” Meera answered, and Sansa couldn’t help but stare.

She was beautiful. Long dark hair, curling wildly around her face. A strong jaw, and strong cheekbones, a soft smile curling over her lips. She was pretty, in a different way than Margaery. In a different way than some of the southern girls Sansa had once found herself glancing at in secret, hoping no one would see. She was pretty like Arya was pretty, in the way Northern girls were pretty. She was pretty like a steel sword, shining in the sunlight. She was pretty like a thick fur, warm around your shoulders. She was pretty like the Godswood tree, stark and almost intimidating, but if you stood near it long enough, you felt welcomed by its strength.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest at the thought.

She nodded, opening her book, and watched as Meera pulled out a notebook of her own, and a small quill and ink from her bag, scratching a note into the pages.

She didn’t read a word on the pages the rest of the afternoon.

———

Sansa made a point to never let anyone in her court see her cry. Her siblings, her ladies, that never bothered her, but the Lords and Ladies of the Northern houses, the knights and maesters of her castle… She hid that from them.

Today was no different.

It had been two years to the day since Theon had fallen, defending Bran in the Godswood, and her heart ached for him. It always did, like a hole, gaping in her chest, but today it was more. Today it was tearing at her insides, like a bleeding wound that had never healed.

He was there, in her mind that night, bleeding from his chest, still Reek, the wild terrified look in his eyes, his hair long and shaggy around his face. He was falling, to the ground, the snow covered earth in the Godswood, and then suddenly, he was gone. His eyes blank and soulless.

And then they were blue.

She woke screaming, tears streaming down her face.

She curled herself into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees and pulling them so far into her chest that she thought she might just dissolve into herself.

She whispered to herself.

“He died as Theon. He died as Theon, for Bran, for my family. He died as Theon, for me. For Winterfell. He was Theon Greyjoy, the last son of Balon Greyjoy, Ironborn and a son of Winterfell.”

Her words were ragged, caught in tears, but she whispered it over and over and over.

“He died as Theon. He died as Theon.”

Not as Reek. As Theon. He had died as Theon.

After they had burned the bodies, after the Battle of Winterfell, she had found the remains of his armour, charred leather and an ashen, molten kraken, the gold bleeding into the cracks of the hardened hide that had managed to survive. Traces of silver from the Direwolf pin she had placed on his chest. He had died as Theon, a Greyjoy and a Stark, and he would go the heavens the same. She had taken the remains of the armour, falling apart in her hands, and had it placed in a heavy wooden frame, glass spread across the top, and hung in her council room.

She climbed from her bed, pulling her thick cloak over her shoulders, tying it tight around her waist and shoving her feet into the soft boots on her floor, opening the door slowly. It was the middle of the night, and she didn’t want to bother anyone, so she wandered down to her council room, lifting the box of the last of him from the walls, tucking it beneath her arm, tears still streaming down her face, and finding her way to the crypts.

A statute had been made of him, near her father, near Robb. A Kraken sigil carved into his chest, buried with wolves. Nothing, not even ash, was found in the stone tomb beneath his effigy. She had taken them to Yara at the Pyke herself, and sobbed openly before the sea as they returned the last remnants of him to the Drowned God. The salt water pouring down her face, finding home in the furs around her chest, felt right. That was what Theon had been made of. Of salt and sea. And of Iron. And of the snows of Winterfell.

She sank into the ground at the feet of his statue, and let her tears flow freely. The sounds of her sobs echoed loudly through the crypts, bouncing off the walls and stone. She leaned the box against the stone box at his feet, and curled herself together again, holding tight, rocking back and forth.

She _missed_ him. So much she ached with it every moment of the day. So much it made her dissolve into tears in the night, so much it made her fall into herself at the slightest memory of him.

She had never told him.

Never told him that she _loved_ him.

She whispered it now, to this stone version of him. It looked like him, she thanked the Gods, old and new, for that. Not like her father, no. No this one was Theon. She had overseen the carving herself, helping shape his chin to the right angle, to carve his eyes to the right depth. She looked into his face, and remembered him, as he had been.

As Theon.

She whispered it, through her tears, over and over again.

She hoped he could hear her, wherever the Drowned God had taken him.

She stood, after what could have been years, a headache of tears spent creeping inbetween her eyes, and lifted the box into her arms, holding it with the glass pressed to her chest, and carried him with her into the air of morning.

She turned a corner and bumped into Meera, who looked apologetic, and then immediately concerned.

“Sansa are- Your Grace. Your Grace are you…” The tenderness of her name falling from Meera’s lips brought the tears she thought she had spent welling into her eyes again.

She shook her head, fast and jerky, trying to keep the tears inside, but she couldn’t.

Meera gently reached out, and took Sansa’s hand, guiding her into her own room, sitting her on the chair near an already crackling fire.

The tears were back, she wasn’t sure how she still had any left at all, but there they were, falling onto the glass in front of her.

Appropriate, bathing what was left of him in salt and sea, she thought in the back of her mind.

Meera sat, her legs crossed under her, at Sansa’s feet on the floor, her hand on her knee, gently rubbing her thumb over and over, a soothing ministration.

She didn’t ask, but the story came pouring from Sansa’s lips anyway. The story of Theon. Of Reek. Of Ramsey Bolton and the horrors of him.

Meera, to her credit, only flinched once, at Sansa’s story of a particularly horrible night when she was still in Ramsey’s evil clutches. She didn’t speak, though a tear or two dripped from her chin all the same as she listened.

“He saved me. He pulled himself out of that horrific place that Ramsey had put him in, and he got me out of there. I never thought I’d see him again, but then he came back, he came back to me that day, and then I lost him forever.” She wept freely, no longer full body sobs, just tears, flowing continuously from her bright green eyes. “He died for Bran, he saved him and died fighting for his home, for his family. It was the type of death Theon had always hoped for. The type of death the Ironborn all hope for, I guess. He died as himself, and he died regaining the last of the honour that time had stripped away. That was always the type of death he had hoped for.” She felt herself almost angry at the words. She wanted to scream. Men and their honour. It was so stupid, always wishing for an honourable death. Why-

“Why do men always wish for honourable deaths.” Meera’s voice cut through her own thoughts. “Why does their honour hinge on how they might die. Wouldn’t it be better, to wish to live instead.” She sounded wounded in her own right, something buried deep threatening to rear its head and spit out things Meera had tried to keep contained.

“I wish he would have lived instead.” Sansa whispered, her voice soft in the morning air. “I wish that. I wished it for Robb, and my father. My mother. For Rickon. But for Theon… For Theon I wish it… differently. Almost more. Does that make me a terrible person, to wish life for Theon more than my own mother?”

“I don’t think you wish it more, Sansa.” Meera’s voice was so kind, and she lifted onto her shins, lifting herself closer, still resting her hands on Sansa’s knees. Sansa’s heart felt strange in her chest. “I think it’s different. Theon… the love you felt for him felt like love that had a future, that was ripped away. In some way, children always expect to outlive their parents. Siblings are… more difficult, its true, but it feels like… what you’re saying… it feels like Theon felt like a promise of a better future for you. You loved him, and you wanted to see what your life would be like now, with him in it, and it was ripped away. I don’t think you wish it more. But even if you do, no one would ever judge you for the way you love. For the way you grieve.”

“My lady, I have spilled both tears and stories of many whom I have lost at your feet.” Sansa placed her hand over Meera’s and leaned forward slightly. They were close now, maybe a foot between their faces. “I would very much like to hear your stories, if you feel inclined to share them with me.”

Meera looked up from their touching hands, her eyes soft and kind beneath the hardness that came with all Northern children.

“And I would like to thank you. For… listening. For being here. You have no obligation to be… anything more than the lady of your house, and yet you are here for me so often. I am forever grateful.” She whispered, lifting a hand and placing it on Meera’s arm, grasping it tightly.

“Your Grace, I-“

“Please. Just Sansa.”

“Oh, no, Your Grace, I couldn’t possibly-“

“I like the way it sounds… my name. I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

Meera’s eyes widened, just a little, and Sansa felt herself shrink, like maybe she had said too much, pushed too far. Her memories of the southern ladies in Kings Landing came rushing back, the fear she felt when they’d catch her looking, the shame she felt when they spoke of Loras and his love for King Renly.

She went to pull her hand away, to apologise and stand, excuse herself from Lady Reeds chambers and hide away, when Meera pressed herself forward just a little, and placed a kiss lightly into the soft skin right below her jaw bone.

It was delicate, so light she barely felt it, like breath passing over the warm skin, but it was there. A kiss that felt like a promise. A kiss that felt new.

Meera stood, untangling their fingers and stepping back.

“I have business to attend to in the Greywater, I… must take my leave this morning.” Sansa became aware of the pack stuffed full near the door, the way Meera was dressed. Clothes for travelling. Her heart sank, but Meera’s soft smile gave her hope. “I will return as soon as I can… Sansa.”

Sansa stood, taking her hand carefully, and pressing a kiss into the back of Meera’s thumb.

“Take whatever you need, Meera. Winterfell will welcome you whenever you return.”

“Will it?” She whispered, and it felt heavy, in the warmth of the room.

“I will.” Sansa answered, before carrying Theon with her from the room.

Meera returned a fortnight later, with well wishes from the people of Greywater, and a caravan of goods from their stores, for which Sansa would send gold at some point. She arrived early in the morning, as if she had ridden through the night to get back to Winterfell, and the way she looked at Sansa when she bowed upon her return made her think surely she had.

———       

 


End file.
